


Extraordinary Capabilities

by theoldgods



Series: Part of Our Game [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Casual Sex, Coming In Pants, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, F/M, Hand Jobs, Light Bondage, Masturbation, Office Sex, Older Woman/Younger Man, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Season/Series 04, Smoking, Sub Mycroft, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 07:41:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9538277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoldgods/pseuds/theoldgods
Summary: Mycroft makes a professional error that results in discipline, and once begun, the need to purge his issues remains.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thediogenes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thediogenes/gifts), [alocin42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alocin42/gifts).



> This follows ["Vetiver"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9394268) and may make slightly more sense if you've read that, but it should also basically stand on its own. Implicit spoilers for all of season 4. A few...visual references used are cited in the endnotes.
> 
> Many thanks to twitter for inspiration via gifs and shitposting, as well as for some Britpicking (especially from Lou and Nicola). Remaining errors are mine, and I welcome any corrections on that point in the comments.
> 
> Feel free to hit up [my Tumblr](http://theoldgods.tumblr.com) for some Mycroft content, among many other things, if you're so inclined!

She rather thought the semi-public bollocking was overkill, and had told Sir Edwin as much—no casualties, not even a publicity nightmare brewing. Why waste the breath? But Edwin had been made a prat of in front of Herself and was still smarting from the Magnussen business (never mind that _she_ had been the one to be licked by a sociopath and then asked to bury her lovely, foolish husband over top of it all), and any slip in intelligence from Mycroft was too sweet for him to pass up.

Thus, Mycroft Holmes, hard-faced and red-nosed, in front of three task groups at once, explaining how he had managed to misjudge a long chain of events that had led to a source being burned in Russia.

She’d already read the written reports, including the barely-not-petulant one Mycroft himself had submitted. Nothing coming up in hearing was different, though Mycroft’s petulance had rapidly gone from subtext to text, an angry gruff almost-whine she associated more with his brother than with him. When it was her turn to question, she watched Mycroft’s folded hands clench and smiled.

“Your brief with Her Majesty’s Government that names you as a consultant on these matters involves the words _extraordinary capabilities_ , does it not, Mr. Holmes?”

Mycroft’s eyes flashed. “It does, Lady Smallwood.”

“I agree with your earlier remarks that even the _extraordinary_ can be caught by poor luck, an overeager source.”

“The source, as I told Sir Edwin at the outset of this hearing, was not _my_ selection, Lady Smallwood; I would not have chosen him, but the Steering Group thought him best placed—over MI6’s objections, might I add—”

“MI6’s objections, yes. Not yours.” A laugh burbled at the base of her throat as Mycroft closed his mouth and swallowed. “You kept quiet then about whatever reservations on source reliability you had, though you are eager to parrot them out to us now. Your brief asks you to be _extraordinary—_ arising to assist the nation in areas where ordinary systems might fail, seeing knowledge more ordinary people might miss. Your brief asks you to speak out in just such a situation as this, and yet you kept quiet. I rather think whatever breach there is between yourself and the rest of the intelligence world has shown itself.” When he did not speak, she continued, “I am thankful the result was not worse.”

Mycroft’s fingers had gone entirely white; his voice was tight. “As am I, Lady Smallwood.”

The rest of the hearing passed in a haze of boredom. Mycroft received his professional scolding with rigid, whining dignity; Edwin, a hound with a duck in his mouth, dangled _the shame and scorn of these servants and of our Prime Minister_ before him two or three times further. She was willing to bet that Mycroft did not give a damn about Edwin’s or Herself’s blushes (certainly _she_ didn’t) and that the faint color on his cheeks was more related to some internecine squabble with MI6.

Mycroft did not look her way again until the hearing was formally adjourned. Amongst the minor chaos of departing officials, his eyes—today pale and narrow—flickered up to the ceiling and down at the floor before meeting hers and widening. She nodded briskly before turning to her laptop.

Her phone flickered ten minutes later, as she still sat in the hearing room, alone, finalizing remarks on the proceedings.

_Please._

She ignored the text for half an hour, submitting her report and gathering a croissant from the cafe en route to her office. Its chocolate filling spread neatly over her tongue as she unlocked her phone.

_Very demanding of you after this morning._

The reply came before her phone went dark again.

_That is why I ask._

_I know a really excellent therapist I can recommend to you._

When he responded, seven minutes later, she smirked over her pile of memos, dripping croissant flakes over Herself’s request for further information on the investigation into Sherrinford’s security.

_I have been imprudent enough these last weeks. I know it. You know it._

_So you ask for more misconduct?_

_Whatever you have to give._

She had been mostly dry for days, barrelling through the furor of work, falling asleep twice in her own bed and once on her office sofa with her hand down her knickers for warmth.

_I’m touched, truly._

She placed the phone on her lap, squirming pleasantly at its eventual vibration.

 _Please_. _Any time after nine._

* * *

“Hello, old friend,” she said to the portrait of Elizabeth as the door locked behind her. “Fancy meeting you here at this hour of the night.”

Mycroft, tonight still fully dressed with his jacket pulled sharply over his shoulders, grunted as she slid out of her coat and draped it over his sofa. “Shall I leave you two alone to reacquaint yourselves?”

“It’s only been a few weeks.” She approached the desk, sliding onto it as Mycroft shifted in his chair. “The usual, Mr. Holmes?”

“Once does not a usual make.” He stared at her trousered knees for a moment before looking back up to her face. “I’m told you don’t mind restraints.”

“On you?” She knocked her brogues against his chair. “Very lovely.”

He opened a desk drawer to reveal a coiled belt, drawing it out with a faint tremor in his hands. As she watched, he brushed pale fingers over the buckle.

“Left by a friend,” he said, lest she think he be so uncouth as to pair belt with waistcoat. “Some while ago.”

“Funny sort of casual fellow, was he?” She extended a hand; he put the belt in her palm. Faint cracks dotted its black leather surface. “Certainly used to being bent in a certain pattern.”

“I would not ask you to try something we do not already know.”

She placed it on the desk with a satisfying clink. “I’ve used belts for all manner of things.”

“I do not—I don’t like it for pain.”

He addressed the air just over her right shoulder. She reached out to grab his chin, cool under the pads of her fingers, and slid her thumb into the corner of his mouth when he opened it.

“Understood, Mycroft.” She could feel him faintly shuddering into her palm, the darting pressure of his tongue against her skin as she slid her other hand up to his lapel. “Won’t you take your jacket off and stay a while?”

Mycroft moved slowly under her touch, his shoulders shifting back and forth against her elbows. She pulled at one of his sleeve garters, inhaling the warmth of him and the ghost of his cologne, as he draped the jacket across the back of his chair.

“The same friend,” he admitted, watching her thought pattern in a nostril flare or God knew what, his voice hoarse as she loosened the second garter. “I am...loyal.”

“Sentimental fool.” She drew both garters down to his wrists, her fingers pressing into the linen of his shirt, and allowed him to slide them onto the desk alongside the belt and loosen his tie as she turned her attention toward his waistcoat. “Humanity rubs off on Holmeses no matter how hard you try, I see.”

He tossed his head, almost in slow motion, sending a wisp of hair across his face as he gripped the arms of his chair and she slid her fingers against his chest between the top two buttons.  “Hence the belt.”

She could feel the slight intake of his breath as she moved down the row of buttons, passing over his stomach, and chose not to linger. By the time the waistcoat was fully unbuttoned, his hands were white around the chair.

“Off,” she said, dropping her hands into his lap. He swallowed, thighs jerking, as he obeyed. Beneath her fingers he was only faintly hard, though she felt him twitch against his zip. “Tired?”

“When are we not?” He looked into her face for a moment before adding his tie to the pile of discarded clothing and beginning to undo his cuffs; she smiled and pressed more firmly against the placket of his trousers, watching each flicker of tendon under the pale skin of his forearms as he rolled his sleeves to his elbows.

She removed her hands from him, reaching back for the belt. Mycroft’s back straightened against the chair, his wrists proffered, almost hesitantly, against his knees.

“One further thing I’m curious about.”

He blinked.

“Your shoes.”

He closed his eyes, exhaling. “And socks?”

She unfurled a quarter of the belt and traced its edge along one of his waiting wrists, drawing out goose pimples in its wake.

“Please.”

His fingers were fast, if thick, with his laces, and as he slid his feet out of his shoes his toes curled into the rug. She pulled the belt back and forth, the faintest brush, across his knees as he turned to his socks.

“And no sock garters, Mr. Holmes?”

Mycroft bared his left foot, a half-smile on his lips.

“I took them off hours ago.”

By the time he was fully barefoot, heat was twining between her legs. She slid a hand up to her hip, her fingertips on the fabric over her clit, as she pulled the belt off his knees. He looked up at her from underneath his eyelashes.

“My lady.”

“Beautiful.” She cupped his face again, feeling his breath shudder against the leather of the belt. “Tell me. Why?”

He rolled his shoulders, tilting his neck back, as she pressed a corner of the belt against his lips. “I failed.”

“Yes,” she agreed, removing her second hand from her clit to run her fingers through his hair. “You did.”

“I don’t want—to think.”

She tightened her grip, fingers around dark wisp—one moment black, the next deepest auburn—down to the roots, and his mouth parted, pink against black leather, as she slowly angled his head back.

“And your pretty hands, to be bound up?”

His eyelids fluttered. “I don’t want to stop myself.”

She slid her fingers to his wrists—too wide to encircle, but the bones flexed, sliding against one another, beneath her touch. She got to her feet.

“Behind you, pet.”

He moved as if trapped in molasses, sinking to his knees and leaning against the desk. She took his abandoned seat as he presented his back and wrists to her.

“That’s it.”

Without his face, she could only judge his mood by the tension in his arms and shoulders. The first loop, around his left wrist, left him shivering within her grasp. The second, drawing the belt in a figure eight around his right wrist and back through the buckle a second time, had him sag back against her for a moment, the top of his head pressing against her breasts. She pushed him gently upright again as she wrapped the belt’s tail around both wrists and back through the buckle and loop to lock it in place.

“All right?” She slid two fingers between Mycroft’s wrists and the belt to test the constriction, massaging the skin there as he moaned. When no further reply came, she pressed her foot against his.

“Please.”

She tilted his head back, one hand in his hair, one under his chin. “Please?”

“Let me touch you.”

Her cunt throbbed; she released him and watched as he shuffled to right himself, knees deep in the carpet. He settled with his lower legs curled up under him, his bare feet between the rug and his own arse, his mouth kissing her clothed knee.

“You’re lovely,” she whispered, sliding her hand under one of his braces as she widened her legs to allow him to better settle between them. “A beautiful fool.” As he mouthed at her inner thigh, she moved both hands to his head again, massaging into his skull. He groaned as her thumbs slid behind his ears. “Willing.”

He shifted; she could watch his shoulder bones slide back and forth under the perfectly tailored fabric of his shirt, drawn faintly upward and outward by the binding of his wrists. She slid her left hand down across his neck, feeling him still beneath her touch as she unzipped her trousers with her right.

Mycroft’s eyes were bright as he looked up. She met and held his gaze as she slid her hand into her knickers and began to tease her clit.

“I’m here for—please—”

“You were too eager, darling.” She slid her forefinger against her entrance and sighed; he moaned into the fabric of the chair. “Let me catch up.”

“My job,” he mumbled to the chair. She pressed in deeper to the sound of his voice. “I’m right here.”

“Tell me more.” Her own voice was growing throatier; she stroked her free fingers across the back of his neck. “Tell me what you think you’ll do with no hands.”

He swallowed. “Top five, you said.”

“I did, didn’t I?” She worked her thumb across her clit. “Though that was with your hands included in the matter.”

“Not the last bit, with you against the—the desk.” He pushed his head forward; she pulled him back, a touch of nails to help it stick. “You were so…”

She flicked under one of his ears. “Wet?”

“Hot.” When she snorted, he looked up again. “Burning. So warm, and your thighs are so _strong_.” She bucked up off the chair for a moment, digging deeper into herself as faint jolts went down her left leg. “I just—I wanted you, you pressing in all around me so hot and bright, and when you came, pressed up into my face, I.... You were delicious. Please let me taste you again; please let me try even with no hands. Please let me prove it.”

She slid her knickers and trousers down past her thighs and pressed Mycroft’s head between her legs.

His tongue went for her opening first, a wet thrust inward that had her tighten her grip on his hair as he angled his nose up toward her clit. He exhaled against her, long and lingering, as he withdrew far enough to kiss the junction of her thigh and cunt.

“Thank you.”

His voice muffled against her folds, as his tongue began stroking from her clit to her entrance, had her shuddering. She draped her left leg across his shoulders to help pull him in yet closer, drawing her brogue down his back.

“Such a pretty mouth.” As he pressed into her and her hips fell further apart, she pulled at a swath of hair near the nape of his neck. “Where was that this morning?”

He moaned.

“You on your knees for me in the briefing room while Edwin drones on about dignity, like you have any with your face between my legs.”

His nose slipped against her thigh as his head jerked faintly upward, drawing heated breath and a streaky kiss from her entrance to her clit.

“Yes, this is Mycroft Holmes, _extraordinarily capable_ at eating my cunt—” she groaned as he pushed the full width of his tongue against her clit “—but bloody useless elsewise.”

She pulled her other leg up over his other shoulder and tilted her head back to watch Elizabeth’s glare as he kissed deeply and wetly for solid minutes, little subvocal whines reverberating into her gut.

“No matter—” Elizabeth disappeared as she closed her eyes “—that’s all you need, isn’t it, just one thing done right? My good boy.”

Her words faded into a moan as he continued to prod with his tongue, steady hot neediness that flooded up from his mouth into her chest and then her head, sprawled against the back of his chair, her heels driving into his back as her body shuddered and the edges of the world blurred. When she opened her eyes again, breathing quickly, and looked down, it was to Mycroft’s dark hair against her skin as he kissed her thigh.

She pulled him up, halfway into her lap until his mouth met her chest, where he nosed at the buttons of her blouse with his wet, reddened lips. She undid one and sighed as he pressed into her breasts.

“Come up here.”

His arse was broad but pert beneath her grasp as she helped leverage him off the floor. He crawled onto her with trembling legs, bracing his knees against the arms of the chair to avoid putting his full weight on her. She held him in place over her, one hand across his arse to steady him, one hand tickling at his bound wrists, the bulge in his trousers bobbing as he kissed her bra, between her breasts, the base of her neck.

“You like it.” She shifted her hand from its inspection of the belt to the front of his trousers and the curled desire therein. “Imagining paying your debts through cunnilingus in front of half of the Steering Group.”

His tongue stiffened against her neck as his hips bucked into her touch.

“Who’s watching you? Edwin? His intern with the arse like a perfect peach?” She squeezed, and he gasped against her skin. “Your sweet belt and perfume friend?” She traced the curve of his cock under fabric, back down to its base. “Oh, surely not _Herself_.”

He groaned.

“Whoever.”

“Ah, that’s no fun.” She took the head of his cock in her hand, felt the heat of it and the light point of moisture spreading through the fabric across its tip. “You’re already messing yourself, pet, just thinking of it.”

“I just want—” His lips slid from her as he pressed his forehead into the back of the chair near her shoulder. “Wherever you need—”

She massaged deep into his arse as her other hand stroked the head of his prick.

“Eating me with my thighs wrapped around your head so you can’t even see who’s watching.” His cock twitched in her grip; she began rubbing along its length. “Trapped between me and the table, riding out all their laughter in my cunt, earning your way back. And you know these hearings can be so _long_.” Her fingers slid around his balls; he whimpered. “Plenty of time to fix your mistakes.”

“ _Please_ —”

Her strokes became brutal, suctioning around him as his cock slipped within the double fabric of pants and trousers, and he moved his forehead to her neck, panting against it as he moaned. “You’re going to come in your own pants thinking about it, darling, look at you. Thinking about paying for your intelligence _sins_ with my cunt while some staid old codgers watch. Or maybe I’d keep you all to myself, handcuffed under my desk, not even worth parading about.”

She moved the hand across his arse up to his bound hands and slid a finger between one of his sweaty wrists and the belt. His pulse thudded wildly beneath her touch. She pressed into his vein as his legs stiffened against the chair arms.

“Lovely boy,” she whispered as warmth exploded against his trousers. He took in shuddering, rattling gasps as he came, and she moved her hand to hold his head, stroking back and forth from his jaw to the roots of his askew hair. “You lovely thing; you come so _prettily_.”

When his breathing had slowed some, she straightened them both within the chair, resettling him over her. She undid the belt in slow strokes, residual throbs echoing across her lower abdomen as his wrists flexed under her hands and he groaned into her ear. The belt fell to the floor; he moved his freed hands to her hips. She stroked the red imprint in the skin of one wrist as he pistoned within her with a forefinger, his thumb working her clit for long moments as he spoke.

“I’ll eat you for an hour in front of Herself, handcuffed to your chair under the table, and answer all their questions directly between your legs.”

She came slowly, a skittering clouded fall as her eyelids fluttered shut. When she could open them again, she found Mycroft back on his knees on the floor, rubbing her hips almost reverently. She stilled his hands and gently lifted them from her, massaging his knuckles all the while.

“Good.”

As she rebuttoned her blouse and did up her knickers and trousers, he opened a desk drawer and drew out a carton and lighter. She raised an eyebrow.

“Isn’t the fumigating hell?”

He sneered, the expression loose and pretty on his postcoital face. “Would you rather not, my lady?”

She took the carton from him and shook out the only cigarette left inside, then grinned as she inserted it into her mouth. Mycroft took position alongside the chair and lit the cigarette as she bent down to him. The first drag was light and loose against her throat, barely noticeable as she exhaled.

“Figured you’d be far stronger,” she said, passing the cigarette to him. He took it almost daintily between his fore and middle fingers. “Black Russians or some such.”

He rolled his eyes, though he choked on his exhale. “I don’t smoke.”

“Indeed.” She stole it back, tapping with a nail. “That’s why you have a carton in your desk.” Her second drag was deeper; she had not smoked in years, but the muscle memory was indelible, the hypnotic curl of hand and mouth and smoke. “Unless—”

“My brother’s vice, inherited like a communicable disease, not any friend’s.” He extended a hand.

“‘I don’t smoke.’” She watched him inhale, gentler this time, and exhale his thin and sputtering cloud. “You sound just like my dearly departed Woody, who nevertheless managed to never be without his carton of Sobranies. I nearly asked them to bury him with one.”

“You’d do no such thing to Lord Hugh’s memory.” Mycroft took his second drag in a row before offering the cigarette back. Their hands brushed as they met, and she suppressed a shiver as she inhaled.  “Not unless they were limited edition.”

She laughed, the room spinning lightly around her with nicotine and oxytocin. “I wouldn’t waste the money on England’s earthworms.”

They smoked down to the filter in silence, which she passed by watching Mycroft’s fingers against his mouth, the moue as he exhaled, the flat calculating silver of his eyes staring into the middle distance. When he rubbed the butt out against a paperweight, she got to her feet and went for her purse and coat.

“I don’t think I ever gave you my condolences for Woody.”

His voice was distant, though he himself was less than two meters away. She drew the folds of her greatcoat around her, reached into her purse for a card, and turned to watch as she replied.

“You apologized instead.”

His face went pink. “As was only right.”

“I don’t disagree, Mycroft.” She approached him slowly, the card in her hand. He stiffened but did not move away as she took his face in her hand, fingers brushing the corner of his eye. “Collateral damage is just part of our game.”

“They don’t deserve it,” he whispered, and his face was pained enough beneath her touch for her to actually believe it. “Woody didn’t. Sherlock doesn't. _She_ doesn't even—”

When he didn’t continue, she squeezed his chin before releasing him and dropping the card onto his desk. “Consider doing something about it, besides nicotine poisoning yourself.”

She was at the door when he spoke again.

“I’m sorry, Alicia.”

She opened the door and looked back at him, still in his mussed shirtsleeves and stained trousers, surrounded by the smell of Mayfairs. She nodded before stepping into the silence beyond.

* * *

The text came two days later, as she sat alone in the townhouse she and Woody had shared for so many years, drinking Talisker and contemplating a wank before drowning herself and half of Whitehall in the claw-foot tub where she had once bound Woody to the taps and ridden him for an hour.

_I cannot use the card any time soon. I still have too many things to say to both of them._

_Get singing, canary._

She drained her glass as he replied, two quick texts.

_The number is in my second phone._

_Thank you._

She wiped scotch from her lips, smiled, and went in search of her vibrator.

**Author's Note:**

> I knew I needed more Smallcroft content, but I didn't know which direction to go in until I saw [this picture](http://pennypaperbrain.tumblr.com/post/156492421056/ok-this-isnt-usually-a-thing-for-me-but-im) (implied NSFW). And voila. I also found [here](http://insanewordcount.tumblr.com/post/66028838254/dare-master-belt-handcuffs-step-one-thread-the) a handy picture guide to using a belt as a bondage instrument.


End file.
